Chapter 4: A Coordinator's Retirement Package
"Are all of you ready?"
Dillon was leading. He would have five with him, including three familiar faces and two strangers. He preferred to work with people he knew, but he knew better than to refuse the job for any reason. This one was important. The grand festival was going to have over two hundred coordinators competing, which meant there would be a lot of very powerful pokémon waiting to be stolen. Their new buyer was chomping at the bit to get his hands on them, and the boss wouldn't tolerate failure.
"Sure thing," Dillon said. "We're ready."
"Are you? Do you really have what it takes?"
"Of course."
"You'll have to move quickly. Take control of the situation and don't back down. If they fight back, show them what happens to heroes, but avoid killing anyone unnecessarily."
Dillon nodded. "Right."
The weapons were in a duffel bag on a nearby table. They would carry the bag with them to store the prize on their way out.
"Don't fail me, Dillon."
A vile warning that rendered a terrible fright in Dillon. He took a deep breath, but all that came out was a stutter.
"I won't, boss."
Drew and Solidad rode the S.S. St. Flower ocean liner to Slateport City, the location of the Hoenn Grand Festival. Coordinators who qualified for the festival were provided with free tickets for themselves and a select number of guests. The yearly voyage was luxurious, an invaluable respite for coordinators facing the massive challenge posed by the festival. Drew kept to himself for most of the trip, while Solidad surveyed the competition and put the finishing touches on her performance.
If nothing else, the trip aboard the St. Flower was a distraction for which Drew was grateful.
Slateport City stood on a massive cliff overlooking the ocean. At times, when the tide and the wind were right, you could walk down the street and smell the salty sea air. The harbor was always busy, with ships coming and going at all hours, which contributed to a booming shipping economy. Near the docks there were warehouses packed with merchandise of all types. The daytime din of mooring lines, cranes, stevedores breaking their backs shuffling crates to and from the warehouses, and cursing sailors looking for a place to quench the thirst acquired after weeks being surrounded by water as far as the eye can see — that was the Slateport that many working men and women knew.
There was more to the city, of course. The Oceanic Museum attracted scholars and students of maritime studies from all over the region. There was a contest hall where coordinators would compete, and the winners would take home ribbons signifying victories.
The city's most notable attraction, by far, was the massive festival hall, where every year the Hoenn Grand Festival was held. It was a large, star-shaped building containing an atrium with kiosks and television screens displaying the broadcasted main event, miles of corridors, a fanciful stage for coordinators to go head-to-head, and extensive quarters to house the competitors.
The event would last several days. A round two hundred and sixty trainers came to Slateport for the festival. The preliminary round narrowed that number to the standard sixty-four. Solidad was among them, surprising no one. There was no doubt, either, that she would breeze through the appeals phase. The rest was up to the skill of the coordinators and their pokémon.
Meanwhile, the city was fully caught up in the festival fervor, banners over every street and posters on every building, just about. Salesmen were slinging souvenirs at every turn, and the closer you got to the festival hall, the more of them there were. The TV was running ads as though there was anybody left who wasn't aware of the festivities.
Drew remembered the festival as a competitor, remembered the excitement of training for weeks and weeks and finally putting on a wild show in front of the judges and an audience of thousands, probably more. As a spectator, it was exhausting.
A couple of days passed. Drew made his way from the Pokémon Center in Slateport, where he was staying, to the gargantuan festival hall campus. The appeals were soon to be underway. He wanted to catch up with Solidad beforehand and offer a word or two of support.
They met outside the competitors' quarters.
"Nothing to say about my performance in the preliminary round?"
Drew frowned. "We never discussed each other's performances."
"You're not even sure you want to stay a coordinator, and pretty soon I'll be out of the game for good. If ever there was a time for us to talk shop, it's now, wouldn't you say?"
He couldn't not call her out. "C'mon, Solidad. You're only trying to get me to talk about coordinating so I'll think about it again and decide not to quit once and for all. You think I can't see what you're doing?"
"Are you saying it's not working?" She smiled at him and punched his shoulder. "I know you want to critique me. You've been waiting for this moment for years. Let's hear it."
"I don't want to."
No go. She wouldn't let up. "Oh, stop it. You're a great coordinator, Drew, and I respect your opinion. I want to know what you thought of my performance. What you think."
He crossed his arms defensively to protect himself in the face of her good-natured prying, but it was to no avail. His professional edge returned for a moment, and he relapsed. After all, his coordinator's eye had captured every detail of her performance from the section reserved for guests. Afterward he scrutinized it privately, without thinking about it; it came so naturally. Then having nobody to discuss it with had driven him slightly crazy. He tried to trick himself in saying, to himself, that he never really paid any mind . . . well, that was silly. "If you insist, I'll say this: using Butterfree was risky, but it paid off. You're saving your heavy hitters for the appeals and the tournament battles. Everyone who knows you is expecting Lapras and Pidgeot, and they're more powerful, but don't have Lapras use Sheer Cold; it's too predictable after all these years. I know the temptation might be to finish with a classic move, but resist it. Give everyone a real show and leave no doubt who the baddest chick in town is. Hit them with something new and exciting. Of course, if I know you, you already have something like that planned. That Stun Spore and Psybeam combo was impressive. I didn't expect the reaction with the Stun Spore particles to be so dazzling. Good job."
Solidad beamed. "Thanks, kiddo. It means a lot."
Drew left Solidad and the sixty-three other coordinators to the business of preparing for the appeals round and returned to the oversized lobby, which was adjacent to the atrium. There he was ambushed, or so he felt.
Okay. Perhaps "ambush" was inelegant, and so was his reaction, which was to spin around and hope to sneak away without being seen. He could definitely manage it. There were enough people gathered in the lobby to make a hasty retreat possible. Blending in would be easy. Facing the opposite direction, he saw six men walking briskly toward the competitors' quarters. One of them was carrying a duffel bag. He took a step, thinking that he might be able catch up with them and match their pace, but damn! There was no way that would work with his green hair. He promised himself that he would dye his hair if he could only slip out and find somewhere quiet to wait for the appeals round to begin, somewhere nobody would find him.
"Look, May! It's Drew," Max said, pointing.
They were standing near the main entrance, a row of six double doors that opened to the lobby. Outside was the concourse. May had just arrived with Max in tow. They wanted to come early and find their seats without having to struggle with a huge crowd, and already there were a lot of people milling about.
May's heart skipped a beat. "Oh, no."
Max asked, "What's wrong?"
There was a distance of twenty-five or thirty yards between them. Not enough to keep Drew from picking up the forlorn expression on May's face when he chanced a look over his shoulder. Then all the miserable feelings of their last meeting rushed back, and he was feeling a little light-headed at the moment, and what if he passed out, fell down, and cracked his head open? Come to think of it, that might be preferable. At least he wouldn't have to face her. He'd be unconscious —
BANG!
What in the —
BANG, BANG, BANG!
Drew's thought process halted. The noise was coming from the competitors' quarters. It had to be. The wide, open corridor led in that direction, and —
There was screaming. Men, women, and children. Confirmation in his mind came slowly, reluctantly. He tried to avoid making the connection, as he feared the implications. Who wouldn't? But the screaming made it impossible.
Those are gunshots, he thought. So many. Coming from the competitors' quarters.
Solidad.
He took a step forward, was ready to sprint all the way back to the competitors' quarters. Solidad was there. His friend, his mentor. If he was quick, he could make it, but what would he do then? The gunshots meant big trouble, trouble that he was unprepared to deal with, and that froze him in place. He could run back and put himself in the middle of it to help her, but could he help her really? He had no idea what was going on. There was more screaming. Some were already fleeing. The entrance was right over there, and escaping might be the smart thing to do.
He turned and saw May and Max.
They were confused. They didn't see the danger yet.
He had two choices. There was no third option. Run toward the danger or flee and grab May and Max along the way. Solidad or May. His mentor or his . . . what? Was May his friend or the girl of his dreams, or was she both? Did it matter? Staying could be suicide, for all he knew.
You have to choose, a voice in his head told him.
Instinct took control.
He doubled back, ran toward the entrance as speedily as his two legs could work, and closed the distance in three seconds or less, but everything seemed to be in slow motion. His right hand seized May's arm, and he spun her around. His left grabbed Max's collar and drove him forward. He herded them toward the doors and heard himself shout, "C'mon! Let's get out of here! Now!"
What the hell was going on?
"Idiot!"
Dillon raged at the hillbilly kid from Azalea Town in Johto, who'd haphazardly discharged his pistol into the leg of a coordinator, some poor bastard who tried to make a run for it. The fool was rolling around and bleeding all over the floor, howling like a lunatic. The rest of the competitors were freaking out and shouting at them, so Dillon pointed his gun at the ceiling and fired three times himself.
"Nobody move!" he screamed. "Everyone up against the wall! Now!"
He turned and pointed at two of his men. "Aaron and Teddy, go search the locker rooms!"
"Okay!"
Then: "I need you guys to check the dorms."
"Got it, Dillon."
With a violent thrust, Dillon shoved the duffel bag they'd carried their guns in toward the hick with the itchy trigger finger. "Take the bag and gather their Poké Balls. We're looking for any fully evolved pokémon. Think you can handle that, dumbass?"
"He tried to run, man. I had to shoot him!"
"Shut up and do what I tell you!"
Dillon started a march throughout the competitors' quarters, which took him slowly from one room to another. He waved his gun like a wand, sweeping rows of terrified coordinators and giving them a view down the barrel. He barked, "Don't look at us, and stay quiet! If any of you try anything funny, I'll nuke you! I swear I'll do it!"
He came across a pink-haired woman who was curiously not shaking with fright. He approached her and gently nudged her cheek with the muzzle of his pistol.
"Got anything good sweetheart? My friends and I are in the market for fully evolved pokémon. How about it?" he asked.
Solidad refused to look at him.
"I asked you a question, lady."
Nothing.
"You're a tough one," Dillon said. He smirked. "Yeah. I've dealt with folks like you before. You'll learn. You'll learn real quick."
BANG!
Dillon jumped at the sound of a gunshot in the next room. He stepped away from the chick and stomped back to the common area that led out of the competitor's quarters and to the rest of the festival hall. There he found a man lying on his back on the floor, and the moron from Azalea with his smoking gun. The dead man was dressed in a uniform of some kind. There was a patch on the sleeve, and Dillon thought for a moment that it was a cop, but the absence of a gun or any useful weapons seemed to confirm that it was a security guard who worked at the festival hall, who stupidly had responded to the sound of gunfire instead of rushing to alert the properly equipped authorities. What the hell had he expected to do with his little can of pepper spray? Suddenly Dillon was wondering who was dumber — the dead guard or this idiot the boss had saddled him with.
They had one dead man and one injured on their hands. Time was running out.
"Guys!" Dillon shouted, scrambling through the quarters. "We gotta get moving! Grab what you can, and let's haul ass!"
The gang made haste and fled the competitors' quarters, searching their surroundings for the nearest exit. They saw a sign at the end of a branching hallway and headed toward it, running and running . . . they came to an emergency doorway, and Dillon rammed into it with his shoulder, and it flew open. They were outside now, and the sun greeted them with its full blast of shine. There was a commotion somewhere, which wasn't surprising. Dillon took a step forward, followed by the idiot, and heard a voice he didn't expect.
"Stop right there!" a woman yelled.
He squinted and saw a lady cop with a blue uniform and a badge on the crest of her hat, and she was pointing something at him.
"Shit!" he blurted. He turned on a dime and crashed against the gang at his heels, bumping into the idiot first and causing a bit of a tumble when someone else subsequently tripped and dropped his gun. Dillon shouted at them and gestured wildly for them to go back inside now!
That they did, and now they were trapped because, by this time, the police had to be watching the main entrance, and their chances of slipping out with the fleeing crowds were slim to none. It occurred to Dillon that some planning might have been in order before they stormed the place, but it was too late at this point, and their only option was what? Could they find another exit that didn't have a cop stationed outside? Sure, it was a possibility, but not likely. None of them knew the layout of the festival hall, and there was no telling how long it would take them without at least some familiarity, so nix that. They could try fighting it out with the cops, but charging into a gun battle would be monumentally stupid and probably would result in them losing their take, which would constitute a failure. And the boss had made it clear that failure was not an option, so what the hell were they to do?
"Where are we going, Dillon?" someone asked.
He fell against the wall and breathed heavily for a few seconds. There was only one thing he could think of. "Go back to the quarters! Hurry! We'll figure out something there."
A shrill beeping demanded Harvey's attention. He was sitting in his office and still not used to wearing a suit to work every day. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone, and checked the screen.
It was a text message reading, all capitals, "INCIDENT ALERT! Contact Hoenn law enforcement immediately for mission brief."
He whispered, "Hell, this oughta be good."
He called Alpha Squad's designated liaison officer and got him on the phone, after which he was told something that briefly made his blood turn cold. Then he felt the pinpricks of excitement as adrenaline started flowing.
Two minutes later, he was standing in the squad room, and everyone was assembled.
"What's up?" Mitch asked.
"We're activated," Harvey answered. "Bad guys in Slateport City. Hostages. The government is asking us to go for a ride. We might need to go in and handle things. You know the drill. Get your kit and get to the rally outside."
As it happened, the company had an agreement with the regional government in Hoenn, the military and police of which were lacking "special capabilities." This limited their ability to respond to certain types of incidents, specifically including those involving great danger and violence. They were, embarrassingly and according to the agreement, categorically unable to operate effectively in direct action or hostage rescue missions or in campaigns of counterterrorism or unconventional warfare. To solve this problem, the government had hired the company to provide forces that possessed such capabilities. These forces had materialized in Alpha Squad, which was recently deployed to Hoenn, where its operatives and staffers would be stationed until further notice. The company had purchased a property outside Crossgate Town, which served as the squad's base of operations. There was plenty of room for the squad to live and train, and it was a short commute from the nearby settlements. Directly adjacent was a helipad and a utility chopper with a twin engine and a four-bladed rotor, which was maintained by a company crew. The helicopter and Crossgate's relatively central location in the region made Alpha Squad a smart, efficient quick reaction force of the type the authorities in Hoenn desperately needed.
Now all of that was going to be put into practice for the first time.
Mitch took charge and led the way in getting changed and gathering everyone's kit. The goal was to have the squad at the rally point near the helipad within ten minutes of an alert. They pulled it off with over two minutes to spare. Harvey was pleased as he walked up to the chopper. The crew already had it idling, and the rotor wash from the four blades nearly blew his aviator's sunglasses off.
"Here we go, folks!" he shouted, climbing into the helicopter's cabin. Mitch, Perry, Dodger, Sam, and Fox followed with their kit.
Seconds later, they lifted off and were en route to Slateport City.
